You know pimples are really very powerful signals, signs, and omens. The process by which they operate from mark to swelling to explosion-release and scar is so reminiscent of action movies, orgasms, and pop songs. I get them where they make symmetrical themselves on my face in what I’m sure they feel are lines of power running along the bones of my frontal skull. Bacterial Stonehenge circles to mark out the astronomy of my stresses and sweat. They are of different species, sizes, and life-lengths, different forms evolving for different valleys of my smiles and frowns. The deep round sore. The timid dry bump. The immediate pustule. Sometimes I think they follow where the sun should be.

Peaceful Pustules following light

Revenging sins in their growing night

Powerful Pustules pulsing and red

Erupting their code on the front of my head

And pop, and again

Subtle Pariah of cleanliness and grace

Sickening squeezes and frustrated face

Wild roses in my fallow field

Doth my stress and discomfort yield

And pop, and within

The signs they are these markers of faith

Marking my war with within-held wraiths

Keeping in check my pride in vain

Vanity struggles to circumvent pain

And pop, and release

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